


a beauty that endured, a smile that was not forgotten

by starblessed



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not Actual Ghosts, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, wow harriet has a lot of names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 19:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Ernest returns to Coburg, haunted. Harriet Sutherland may not be not dead, but her spirit refuses to let him rest in peace.





	a beauty that endured, a smile that was not forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> this is what you get when you read Rebecca, watch Victoria, then go trolling for Ernest/Harriet fics on the same night. Sorry. (Sidenote: why are there not more Ernest/Harriet fics?)

One small fact, and then he would rest. One small fact, and he would forget all that was, all that remained, all there ever would be in the world. One small fact, and that fact was her.

She was indeed the sultress who haunted his dreams, slipping in and out of shadows as he lingered on the brink of wakefulness. Her clever eyes followed him down into the abyss; when he woke again, it was with her voice echoing in his ears, her profile imprinted like a brand upon his memory. Perhaps he imagined her...  or perhaps, through his weeks of agonizing, of drawn-out longing, the conjured specter became all too real.

He knew her too well to imagine a phantom bearing her image. Her nighttime visits were no cheap trick of the mind, nothing a murmured prayer or a paid harlot would chase away. He woke with a familiar touch lingering on his skin, an unforgettable taste upon his lips... and that, without question, could not be fantasy. If it _were not_ her, he would not feel as strongly, would not know the second her presence materialized at his side. She was Harriet, come back to him  ---  to grace or to taunt. Inevitably, it was both. The pain always overrode the pleasure, no matter how great that pleasure may be.

 _There are no cold beds in Coburg,_ he used to tease Albert, whenever the boy turned a disapproving eye on their father’s latest exploits, _unless you let them lie too long._

How funny now, that he did not have to try at all  ----  only lie, long and still, to find his bed the warmest it had ever been. No other woman ever set his nerves on fire in the way of Harriet’s ghost...  but phantom limbs faded to mist in the morning haze, evaporating as if they were never there at all. Inevitably, Ernest woke up to an empty bed... and while he _could_ seek company elsewhere, a distracting body just for the night, he had no desire to. How easy it would be  ---  and how unsatisfying!

No...  he could never be happy with a strange woman’s body, when his heart belonged to another.

Every night went the same way. Ernest settled down to rest, blowing out the candle in one quick breath; and in the darkness, he heard the swish of skirts. He curled into bed, and watched her combing out dark, silken tresses in front of her vanity. His eyes slid shut, and she slipped between the sheets next to him. There, arms around his waist... there, breath on the back of his neck... there, a whisper in his ear, soft as a lullaby...

When he woke, his bed was always freezing, and he was always alone.

It was not her, of course  ---  not the Harriet of flesh and blood, thriving back on English soil. He had enough self-awareness to recognize a delusion, even the gentlest one known to any madman. He was haunted not by ghosts, but by desire  ---  by regret  ---  and above all else, by memory. The Harriet who let her hair down for him, whose handkerchief fluttered from slender fingers, who smiled at him and illuminated the whole world...  the one who kissed him, breathless and urgent, trusting he would do her no harm. This was the ghost who snared his mind and senses...  this was the dream he could never wake up from. She refused to let go of him, and he could not let go of her.

Pining -- what a vicious, distasteful business. When the poets wrote about the cruelty of love, they understated it. He could never have imagined heartbreak until feeling it for himself... and caught in its snare, he would never emerge whole.

He could only try... for her sake, and his own sanity. All he could do was try.

One small fact... that was all. Then Ernest could close his eyes...  and when Harriet inevitably slipped back into his dreams, he could ignore her. Perhaps he could be that lucky.

One fact. 

He was in love with Harriet Sutherland.

She was _anything_ but harmless  ---  beguiling, intelligent, demure, dangerous in all the ways sure to be his undoing. She invited nothing, while he invited everything. Yet she had a way of seeing through him...  straight through, to the core of his being, the heart he often struggled to recognize himself. Perhaps that is what hit him at first, this realization that someone saw inside of him. Perhaps he fell in love in that moment, with the warmth of her words reverberating in his chest... or perhaps it happened slowly, one breath at a time, like Harriet’s phantom arms twining around him as he drifted off to sleep.

He never imagined himself capable of love until he fell... fell for a _married woman_ , with children of her own, and a life to live across the nations-breadth of distance between them. He could never have her. Prince Ernst, brother of the king (son of a womanizer  ---  and a princess who ran into disgrace to follow her heart, and died for it) could never be permitted to love a married woman.

But... he did. Of this simple fact, there was no way to deny.

 _I wish I could make you happy,_ she had whispered... but that one moment was not enough. Ernest could relive it a thousand times, and still crave more. One moment could never be enough to satiate after a starving lifetime... and illusions, however vivid, however painful, did not quite do the trick either.  


Their father itched to visit the prospering line of royal Coburgs; Albert wrote to Ernest, in awkward apology (with twice as much meaning than humility) to come visit his growing niece. When an impending visit to the royal household was announced, Ernest held his breath.

That night, he settled down in bed, and slipped the precious lock of hair  ---  tied with a bow, kept safe within reach  ---  out from under his pillow. He closed the silky strands inside his bedside drawer, shut it, and blew out the candle.

No phantoms haunted him that night. He awoke feeling lonelier than ever.


End file.
